t's been weird the last couple of months, driving around the plywood-lined canyons of Hollywood-- the endless construction zone, the castles of scaffolding and the drywall façades that mark the parking garages, the Scientology test centers, the mini-malls of tomorrow. Between rows of handbills for 8 Mile and Christina Aguilera's Stripped there are stark grids of them, white on black, with a single word: NIRVANA. PITCHFORK
